


Ordinary People

by bluemermaid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chamber of Secrets, Death Eater Ginny, F/M, Obsession, Tom Riddle's Diary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 09:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3687969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemermaid/pseuds/bluemermaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was a war-torn country herself, Ginny Weasley, stricken and hollow and torn in half by a dividing faction. And behind her, he bellows, ordering her once again to bow for him, to say yes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> This was a series originally written for the rarepair_shorts community on livejournal, back in 2009.

Ginny sits in the back of the History of Magic classroom and pretends to take notes. Nobody really pays attention to Professor Binns; beside her, Ginny can see Colin Creevey flipping through his latest stack of photographs. The girls are passing notes and making plans for Hogsmeade; the boys are thinking about Quidditch and falling asleep. Ginny pushes her textbooks over to the center of her desk, so that nobody glancing around can see her or what she is doing.

On her parchment, where she is supposed to be writing about some Ministry conference, Ginny is sketching Tom Riddle. She's only actually seen him once, and still his face lingers in her mind, popping up at the oddest moments and bursting to be drawn. Ginny keeps a stack of pictures, the quality improving with her age, hidden in the bottom of her trunk up in her dormitory. She never looks at them; just knowing he's there is enough.

Around her the ordinary people breathe and giggle and drool in their sleep, and Professor Binns drones on without stop, hovering behind his desk as he talks about laws and meetings and goblins. But Ginny is not ordinary at all, and her quill twitches away at the back of the room, her stomach churning with a mixture of desire and resentment as her own personal ghost appears before her yet again.

His eyes never leave her.


	2. Inextricably Linked

Ginny wakes up and immediately wishes she hadn't. She is cold, damp, and frightened, and the dark, unfamiliar world she finds herself in is blurred around the edges. "Where am I?" She asks, eyes drifting open and closed; she's never been so tired in all her life.

"Why, Ginny, don't you remember? It's our Chamber." Though she has never heard it before, she knows immediately who the voice belongs to. Looking up through the gloom, Ginny finds Tom Riddle, an eerie glowing form, smiling down upon her in just the way she's dreamed.

"Tom? But, I thought," Ginny stutters as she looks around, as the room shifts and swirls and tips beneath her, as she struggles to remain awake. "I thought I got rid of you."

"Oh, it's too late for that, little one," says Tom, kneeling down beside her. Ginny looks through him, a shimmering cloud; the room beyond him is muffled and bright. Tears spill from Ginny's eyes, for even now she longs to touch him, to press herself to him, to glean some of that old familiar comfort from him, her shining Riddle.

"I wish it weren’t you, Tom," she says softly, choking on her tears. "You were my best friend."

Tom laughs and stands up, tossing his diary from one hand to the other. "And so I will always be, dear Ginny. We're going to be together forever, you understand. Once I become whole, our souls will be inextricably linked. You as yourself, as pathetic little Ginny Weasley, will cease to exist. You will be a part of me, the greatness of my young self."

"Tom, please, I want to get out of here," she begs, trying to sit upright and failing; she is dizzy and weak, and can barely move. Slowly, Ginny reaches out a hand, desperate for his touch, desperate for some sign that he is still the Riddle she used to know. "We can go back, Tom, can't we? We can go back to Gryffindor and be friends again. You don't have to be in the diary; you can be with me as you are. Just please, please, get me out of here. I don't want to hurt anybody again." She dissolves into tears, and Tom Riddle laughs.

"You don't seem to understand what I am saying, Ginny," he says, his voice echoing throughout the chamber. "You are growing weaker as I grow stronger. I will become a man once more, solidified and no longer mere memory, and you will die and give your soul to me. It is for a grand cause, my love, so please, stop crying and accept your noble fate. They will speak of you in honor, Ginny Weasley, for you gave yourself to Lord Voldemort and brought him new life."

"Vol—Vol—what?" Ginny cannot speak the name. "Tom, how can you speak of him? What does You-Know-Who have to do with this? Tom, help me." She struggles to breathe, the air dank and thick and swallowed up in sobbing. "I feel so sick, Tom. I'm scared. Please, stop, help me."

He laughs again, and it frightens her, brings more tears to her eyes as the truth begins to settle upon her heavy shoulders. "Yes, it pained me to keep my greatest truth from you, dear Ginny. But now that the end is near, you must know who it is you gave your love to." He leans in close again, his breath cold against her cheek, and Ginny is filled with both fear and desire, conflicting urges both to pull him close and push him away. Her entire body is shaking. "It is I, Lord Voldemort, Dark Lord and the greatest wizard that will ever be." His whispers send shivers down her spine; his voice is smooth and tender. "And I am your Lord, sweet Ginny. I will forever be your Lord."

"Tom," she says, but the name is meaningless; he is not Tom anymore, and his laughter grows high and cold, and Ginny cries on the floor of the Chamber as her heart shatters into a million little pieces of misery, for how can she feel such love for the most evil being the wizarding world has ever known? It is unfathomable, and Ginny cannot be, she cannot bear to realize what she has become. And so she gives herself to him, crying her soul away as he laughs above her.


	3. Presence

Ginny is almost asleep when she hears a creaking noise.

Pulling the covers up to her eyes, she peers over towards the door, which is shut tight. "Fred?" She whispers, vowing to hex the lot of them if they're trying to frighten her. "George?"

The floor creaks again, over by the corner, and Ginny sits up in bed, narrowing her eyes as she tries to see through the suffocating darkness. "I'm not in the mood for this," she says, sounding braver than she feels, which is terrified. There's a voice in the back of her mind, a chilling whisper that's gone unheard for much too long now, a sinister laugh which Ginny steadfastly ignores. The floor creaks again.

She's been good for so long, keeping her mind on her schoolwork, having dates with Michael Corner, he's such a fascinating boy, he's good to her, and he actually cares about her. Not like this, this creaking floorboard, this cold ghost who only likes to see her tormented.

The air moves silently around her, a cool wind blowing across her bed. Ginny begins to shake, her eyes wide with shock. "It's not you," she says, taking a deep breath, casting her mind out towards something innocent. Crookshanks is around somewhere; maybe the cat has snuck into her bedroom.

A familiar laugh snakes its way into her ear. "You know it's not the cat, Ginny."

She can't see him but he's there, his weight pressing down on her, icy tendrils making their way across her chest. Ginny whimpers as an invisible grip tightens on her arms, as a moist cold presses against her cheek. "It's not real, I'm dreaming," she says desperately, wishing he would just show himself so she could be sure, so she could lose herself to him again.

Tom Riddle kisses her again, his lips thin and cold, lingering in the place where her neck meets her jaw. Ginny shivers and licks her lips; his fingers are dancing along her spine. "The boy," Tom whispers harshly, nipping at her earlobe. "You're jealous of the boy."

Ginny remembers Harry, standing awkwardly next to the bed, hands in his pockets as he glares at her. _"So do you think I'm being possessed, then?"_

Tom laughs at her, at her anger. "The boy is mine, Ginny, whether you like it or not. Still, I am here, aren't I? You're still mine, as well."

She can tell herself it's a lie, that she is merely angry at Harry because he never listens to her, because his eyes slide away from her, but deep down she knows that it is this, too. Harry is frightened because he thinks You-Know-Who possesses him; Ginny is frightened because she still separates the demons from her Tom. "You're always here," she says softly, wrapping her arms around herself, around him, the invisible shell of ice which surrounds her. "Why are you always here?"

She already knows the answer; still, it brings tears to her eyes as he speaks. "Because you want me to be, my dear Ginny."

She can almost see him as he leaves, wisps of grey smoke curling around the edges of her bedroom here in Grimmauld Place. Though the ghost will leave her, creeping away in the dead of night, she will remember him in the morning, when she is trying to write a Christmas letter to Michael. She's been so good for so long, forgetting Tom, and still, he has always been here.


	4. Escape

Right now, the wind is all Ginny knows. The force of freedom pulls at her Quidditch robes, the silky red fabric straining against her skin, fibers and colors as desperate as her heart to be free. Ginny's hair streams out behind her, her own built-in Gryffindor banner, shimmering red locks flying in the breeze.

Her broom is trembling beneath her, the only ground she has right now, the only stability in a swirling world of frenzy. Katie Bell calls out to her, tosses her the Quaffle, and Ginny is there with a grin upon her face, snatching the ball away from the scrabbling Slytherin chasers, green blurs scowling as Ginny soars beneath them. She is not a Weasley here; she is not a Hogwarts student. She is the air itself, the speed of a racing broom, the pressure of gravity on magic, the thrill of a dive. She is the sky, and she is free.

The goal posts loom ahead of her, defended by a particularly large Keeper with a particularly sinister smile upon his face. Ginny grins as she nears, leaning low over her broomstick, Quaffle tucked under one arm as she plans her attack. He matches her expression, leering at her as he hovers between the large golden hoops. Ginny narrows her eyes, readies her throwing arm, and glances at the Slytherin Keeper, her eyes happening to land upon the silver snake emblazoned on his chest. Immediately her heart stops, the wind growing colder about her ears. "What is this, Ginny? You see my snakes every day; why should they worry you up here?" It's the voice again, that all-too-familiar whisper in her soul. "You are free up here, aren't you, my dear?"

He's never been here before; she's always been safe here, up in the sky. Hesitating, Ginny ruins her chance, overshooting the goal posts and looping around the back, eyes shut tight to block out the distractions of voices and fear. She attempts a rebound shot, coming around the corner and aiming for the leftmost hoop, but she is all out of sorts now and the Slytherin Keeper catches the Quaffle easily, laughing at Ginny as she soars back towards the center of the pitch. She will not let him win here, not now. The air is her friend here; the wind her power. Tom Riddle cannot survive so far beneath her, confined to dark bedrooms and the backs of classrooms. Ginny chose Quidditch to escape the voices; she won't let the sky haunt her, too.

The next time she catches the Quaffle, she keeps her eyes focused on the goal posts. The Keeper never gets another chance to stop her.


	5. Discovery

Lord Voldemort awoke with a start, shooting up in bed with a sense of alarm that greatly disturbed him. It was occurring more often now, these odd dreams, the young girl with the messy red hair and the dark, smiling eyes of a man no one knew, a man who no longer existed outside the dreams of the Dark Lord. He may have been gone for a long time, Lord Voldemort, but he did not forget, and he recalled his many years with perfect clarity, which was only natural for one so brilliant as he. Yes, he remembered his teenage self, the budding Dark Lord, but he did not recall the girl in the dreams. She was so young, so frightened; it enthralled him. He must discover, he must root out this girl; he would not rest until he had encountered her in person. There was only one way it could be possible, though he did not understand – he had given such explicit orders. It could not be so. There was only one way to find out.

*****

"WHAT?"

"My Lord, I didn't know, I was confused. Please, I beg of you, Dark Lord, I beg your forgiveness. I was wrong, I hadn't realized---"

Voldemort, who usually so loved begging, was so angry that he could not even bear this. "Crucio!" He bellowed, and sneered down at Malfoy, watching him writhe in pain with only the merest hint of enjoyment. Lifting his wand, he curled his upper lip in disgust. "That diary was incredibly important to me, Lucius. It was going to be a major part of my plans, and you knew this. I specifically told you to wait for my order, to obey my command. You should never take things into your own hands, Lucius Malfoy. Not when my orders are concerned, you pathetic little slug!" Again he cursed Malfoy, sending shockwaves of pain through his servant. "I should kill you on the spot," he said angrily, kicking the blonde man viciously. "WORMTAIL! Remove this filth from my presence immediately!"

"Yes, my Lord." Wormtail scurried into the room, like the little rat he was, and pulled the limp body of Lucius Malfoy out of the room.

As usual, the sight of cowering little Wormtail filled Lord Voldemort with hatred. It was utterly humiliating to need such disgusting little fools as this. Waving his wand, the Dark Lord sent curses into every corner of the room, smashing vases and mirrors with wild abandon. It was soothing, when he was livid, to break things, to be reminded of his power. Soon he would no longer need such pathetic servants, once Potter and the Ministry were out of the way. Soon he would truly be Lord over all, and then things would be better.

But the girl. Who was this young red-haired female, helpless victim of Malfoy's disobedience? In his rage, Voldemort had forgotten to ask Lucius, and now he would need to re-question the Death Eater. Slamming his fist angrily upon the table, the Dark Lord swore to himself. He was too angry to talk to anyone just now; he would ask Bella later to get the answers for him.

*****

Lurking silently in the shadows, Lord Voldemort peered out into the sun and frowned angrily at the sight. So many cheerful young people, so many Muggle families greeting their unworthy Hogwarts children. But the Dark Lord was not out to cause trouble; not today, at least. He had to lie low, for now. Soon the second wave would begin, but on this day, Voldemort had a more particular mission.

"Ginny, sweetheart, how are you?" A plump older woman pulled her daughter into a hug and stroked her long red hair.

"I'm fine, Mum, honestly," said Ginny, pulling free from her mother's embrace. Shaking her head, so that her hair glimmered in the sunlight, she smirked at her mother and patted her arm gingerly. "Don't worry so; I'm all healed."

Lord Voldemort stared at young Ginny Weasley, she of the long red hair who had been disrupting his dreams for nearly a year. She was older than she had appeared to him, older and neater and a lot less frightened, which bothered him. He would never admit to her loveliness; he had never paid much thought to such things. But still, there was something about her that called to him, and as he lurked and watched, Ginny Weasley froze in the middle of the train station and stared at him, stared with eyes wide with shock and trembling limbs. Despite himself, the Dark Lord startled, and checked his magic. He was hidden, of course; he was disillusioned perfectly, invisible to all the inferior humans who dared to look in his direction. Why, then, was Ginny staring so, shaking and frightened and more lovely because of it? Perhaps it was for the same reason Lord Voldemort dreamt of her every night, woke up in a haze of confusion and desire. There was something connecting them, some invisible tether born of the diary she had nearly died to. He had almost consumed her, and now, perhaps, they were consuming each other. Lord Voldemort smiled and Disapparated, leaving Ginny Weasley frozen in the middle of the train station with a sudden feeling of abandonment.


	6. Pull

Ginny hears it crying, tumbling through her veins; she hears it calling, a lone voice at the bottom of the well. Ginny hears it and smiles, ignoring; she goes to classes and plays Quidditch and pretends, laughs at jokes and hexes Slytherins, sits in the middle of Slug Club meetings and winks saucily at Blaise Zabini, just to irritate him. Ginny slips under the covers at night and holds her hands over her ears, blocking out the snorts of sleeping Gryffindors and the wind whistling through the trees; Ginny shuts her eyes tight and wills sleep to come, wills him to leave her, wills herself deaf to the howling whispers of the night.

Ginny hears it crying, tumbling through her veins; she hears it calling, that lone voice at the bottom of the well. She's been ignoring it for years now, putting on her smiles and hiding behind her laughter. She can fool them all, parents and siblings and friends and boys, but, try as she might, she cannot fool herself. She can be tough, and spirited, but still it gets louder, louder and meaner and angrier, and finally, one night in the middle of summer, Ginny sits up in bed and knows what she has to do.

Ginny hears it crying, tumbling through her veins; she hears it calling, that lone voice at the bottom of the well. Ginny hears it and smiles, stumbling over tree roots in the dead of night, picking her way through the wilderness with a newfound determination. "Come," says the voice, stern and thrilling, and Ginny goes, unable to resist him any longer.


	7. Break

Ginny whimpers when she hits the floor. Somewhere above her, there is laughter, and her jaw tightens. She cannot tolerate their laughter. Opening her mouth, she means to shout, but a voice fills the room and she is startled into silence.

"What have you brought me, Bella?"

"A traitor, my Lord," Bellatrix says gleefully. "A filthy little traitor girl, wandering foolishly into our midst." Ginny hates how she says the word "our." Ginny hates how she hates this, the irrational loathing of a mad woman for the simple reason of her closeness to him. To their Lord.

Long, slender fingers trace Ginny's cheek, and she whimpers again, her insides melting at the feel of his hand upon her. She has dreamed of this every night since her childhood, dreamed of dear Tom Riddle caressing her skin. It fills her with nausea, the wrongness of her surrender, and still she can do nothing but whimper as he lifts her head to meet her gaze.

"Ginny Weasley." He is breathless, surprised, and Ginny feels a brief freedom, a jolt of victory. Can he feel the same way she does right now, boneless and swirling, caught in a storm cloud of confusion? His eyes say nothing; he is blank, a wall. Ginny's hand twitches, but they have taken her wand. She only meant to break through the wall.

"My Lord?" Bellatrix hovers, uncertain. Perhaps she, too, can sense the disruption in the air, the break in the safety of routine. The Dark Lord kills intruders, dances with his faithful servants over their broken bodies. He does not stare at them so, so deeply.

"Leave us." Voldemort's voice is sharp, piercing the hearts of both women before him. Ginny trembles in his grasp, and Bellatrix throws her a look of utter disgust before sweeping away, her robes trailing upon the floor behind her.

"I haven't come here to join you," Ginny manages, once Bella is gone. She fights to gain her legs back, shivering as she reluctantly breaks the contact with him. Her knees are weak; she leans upon the table for support.

"I didn't bring you here to ask permission," Tom replies, and despite the changes, she can see him, her dearest friend, smiling at her from an unfamiliar face. He's there, inside, and the thought flows like fire through Ginny's veins: _He's still with me._

"You didn't bring me anywhere," Ginny says, her voice growing stronger. She remembers school, flinging hexes at irritating boys; how can he change her so? She couldn't cast a single spell now, before Tom. "I came to you."

"Did you, now?" He raises an eyebrow. "And I suppose you haven't been hearing voices, my dear Ginny?"

Her face pales. She nearly faints at the sound of it, "my dear Ginny." The words swirl about her head like a fog. "Voices," she says, disbelieving. He can't have, it couldn't be. The voice, his voice, it was only an illusion, wasn't it? A dream, a memory. Just as Tom was a memory.

"Do you remember?" She asks, desperate, leaning forward, so far forward she tumbles, falls to her knees at his feet.

And the Dark Lord smiles as he reaches for her, tangles his fingers in her hair. "I remember," he says, his eyes gleaming, heart racing as he looks down upon her, dear little Ginny finally his again.


	8. Heat

"Ginny," he says softly, caressing her, reveling in the feel of her touch. She is fire personified, a blazing heat beneath his fingers, cascading waves of molten lava upon his nerves. He has touched people before but never like this; never as though he needed them.

"Please," she says sweetly, an intoxicating mix of sorrow and anger. "Please stop touching me." She writhes in his grasp, pushing at him with her fragile hands.

He laughs at her struggle. "Why do you fight me so, my dear?"

"You're not him," she cries, her eyes flashing. "This isn't right! I don't belong here. You disgust me."

"I disgust you?" He is smirking at her, gripping her arms tight. "Please don't lie to me, Ginny; we both know I do not disgust you."

"You're evil! You're Him, You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Voldemort!" She shivers at the sound of the name, closing her eyes tight. "I thought I could save you, bring you back, but I can't, so just kill me, please, and get it over with. You can't be as you were, and I can't stand it anymore; just let me go."

Her shivers send a chill down his back. She is still in his arms, only partially struggling, perhaps as torn as he is. He does not need her to save him; he is offended by the very idea. Perhaps it would be best to destroy her now, before her hold grows ever tighter on him. Still, her heat, it touches him. Her soul touches him.

"Dear Tom," he whispers, and his heart beats faster as he feels her freeze in his lap. "My stupid brothers keep pushing me around. I wish I was stronger and smarter so I could get them back. Once I start learning spells at Hogwarts they're never going to mess with me again. I'll learn all the best jinxes, won't I, Tom?"

"How do you know?" She breathes anxiously; he can feel her heart racing, keeping time with his.

"Of course you will, Ginny," he continues, pulling words from nowhere, shadows in the deepest corners of his brain. He can't say, of course, how he knows these things, but he only seems to know them when she is near him, when he is inhaling her scent. "It's prudent to know at least a couple of hexes, in order to defend yourself. I could even teach you some, if you'd like."

She is crying now, again, always she is crying. "Tom," she says, "Tomtomtom." She clings to him, hands snaking up his arms.

"I would love to learn from you, Tom." The climax; they tremble together. "I'd just love you to teach me."

Ginny sighs into his neck, her breath sending yet another wave of heat through him, and he decides it's worth keeping her for this; not because he needs her (or so he tells himself), but because of the thrilling thunder of emotions within her, that this small girl can be so devastatingly torn over him, filled with such equal amounts of longing and hatred. The mixture is delicious, and he drinks from it greedily. "You would do well to learn from me again," he says, rising to leave her. "Eventually you'll have to make a choice."

She does not respond, turning away from him in her little jail cell. He watches her for a moment, pleased with their meeting, and locks the door as he goes. The air is cold without her.


	9. Weakness

"My Lord, the resistance is growing. Are you certain you want to leave the country at this time?"

"I see no need to entertain any thoughts of disobedience," Lord Voldemort replied idly, staring down at the glass table. He spun his wand in one hand; the wand he would soon be disposing of, if all went well. "Are you afraid of a bunch of fools, Rowle?"

"Of course not, my Lord."

"Any who would dare oppose me have already been killed or forced into hiding. Any movement from them would certainly trigger a reaction from my most loyal. I am free to go where I please for the time being."

"And what of the prisoners? Will you be taking care of them before you go?" It was Snape, his most trusted advisor, and he looked as enigmatic as ever.

Voldemort curled his lip and stared Severus in the eye silently for a moment. Seeing no actual feelings for any of his prisoners, the Dark Lord leaned back in his seat and contemplated the question. Of Ollivander he had no care; they could do what they liked with him now that his knowledge of wand lore had been thoroughly explored. As for Ginny, she was another story entirely. "I will deal with the prisoners when I return," he said at length, splaying his fingers upon the smooth surface of the table. "They are not to be disturbed until then."

"My Lord, forgive me, but I can hold my tongue no longer," a shrill voice cried, and Voldemort looked down the table at Bellatrix, who had risen from her seat. Beside her, Narcissa Malfoy clutched at Bella's robes, no doubt wisely attempting to save her sister from the Dark Lord's wrath. Bellatrix shook Narcissa away impatiently before continuing to speak. "You have been spending too much time with that girl, time that could be better spent in crushing our adversaries! I am always the first to rush to your defense, my Lord, but the whispers are rising! The girl must be killed at once! She is a traitor, a distraction! And surely, my Lord," and here her voice lowered seductively as she leaned over the table towards him, "you cannot be fond of the thing? She is but a child; a rotten little stick who would laugh over your grave if you could be brought to your knees. Surely there are much better women you could be spending your time with, women who would kiss your feet at every opportunity."

He should have called her a liar and a whore; he should have made an example out of her in front of the so-called whisperers, cursed her with everything he had and made her beg for forgiveness for her words. He should have been quicker to react, but instead he was thinking again about Ginny, lying beneath them in her little cellar. "Surely, my Lord, you cannot be fond of the thing?" He had never been fond of anything in his entire life; even now, when his bones ached with unspeakable yearning, he would never in a million years confess to being fond of Ginevra Weasley. His dear little Ginny, so weak and beautiful. No, fond was much too weak a word. He was obsessed with her.

"My Lord?" Bellatrix was nearly lying flat on the table now, so eager was she for a response. Around them, Death Eaters stared in wonder, curious as to their Lord's silence and not daring to even breathe until he spoke. Snape raised an eyebrow but otherwise showed no sign of even hearing Bella's rant.

Lord Voldemort, ruler of the British wizarding world and soon to be the most powerful being on the earth, jolted out of his thoughts and dropped his wand onto the table, where it rolled quickly off the side and landed with a burst of red sparks upon the floor. "What?" He asked angrily, slamming his palms upon the table; several people jumped in their seats then looked away guiltily. Nobody seemed to be looking his way now; he had lost the reverent stares of his servants. "Bellatrix, my most loyal Death Eater," he sneered mockingly. "You are a raving lunatic, and while that serves me well in battle, it does not do at meetings. Calm yourself or I shall do my best to calm you."

Bella looked as though she had been slapped. "Yes, my Lord," she said, and reluctantly took her seat.

It was something, but it wasn't enough. The Lord Voldemort they knew would never lose his focus; he would never allow his wand to leave his grasp. Now the sacred object was lying on the floor like a scrap of timber, and their own Dark Lord had settled for simply insulting a soldier instead of flying into a rage at the blatant act of disobedience. He was slipping, growing clumsy; if anyone before him were to suspect the true nature of his relationship with Ginny, what would they think of him then? What would they do to the girl? He was not interested in finding out. It was becoming difficult to think clearly where she was concerned. The sooner he left the country, the better. Perhaps the time away would rid him of this weakness against her.

"The prisoners are not to be disturbed until my return," he said firmly, retrieving his wand from the floor. As he rose, he eyed his troops menacingly, daring them to say anything at all about the incident. "Any who disobey my command will find themselves in serious danger." He looked directly at Bellatrix, who had lowered her head in shame. She would not dare to make a move against him again; still, he would double the protective enchantments on the cellar before he left, just to make certain.


	10. Like Apples

Pacing back and forth in her cell, Ginny forces herself to think of Harry, who is probably out there risking his life for her. He would do anything to save the world, to stop the evil Tom has become, the evil he probably has always been (though it's gotten harder and harder for her to remember this). Harry is goodness and light, a stalwart champion, the sort of person she used to dream of being. Now she's stuck pacing the floors in the Malfoys' cellar, trying as hard as she can to think of someone other than Tom.

It's all she's done for years, the constant struggle to forget, to replace. The only reason she even started going with Michael Corner was because he had the same self-satisfied smirk. Michael was different, though, less charming somehow, more aloof. Tom had lured her in with compliments; she'd been glad for the change, afraid that to trust another charmer would mean her death. Michael was funny; he could tell jokes almost like her brothers, and she liked that, the easy laughter. Tom wasn't so funny; brilliant and lovely, but not funny.

But Michael Corner had grown tired of her and eventually ditched her for Cho Chang. Ginny remembers crying in her dormitory, feeling like a drifting log in a raging river. By this time, though, she was a master of false faces, and nobody had ever discovered her heartbreak. But then again, she'd never really loved Michael (not like Tom, she thinks, and curses herself), so it had been rather easier than expected. And then Dean Thomas came along.

She wanted Harry Potter; she hasn't forgotten this yet. But he still looked through her as though she were invisible, and so she chose Dean instead, a nice boy and not much else. No false flattery like Tom, no snide remarks like Michael. Dean was polite and sweet; he drew pictures of her in the common room after dinner. He wasn't so easy with words like Tom; he used his pencils to convey his feelings. Ginny still has some of them, his artworks, non-moving Muggle pictures hidden in her trunk, just above her own less-talented scribbles of Tom. This amuses her now, the obvious irony, and she laughs to herself briefly. Dean was much too nice, always offering to pull her chairs out or carry her books. Ginny has never wanted to depend on anyone, not even when she's needed it, and so the two of them drifted apart, Dean's desperate attempts to reconcile only annoying her more by the day.

And then, finally, Harry. Ginny really thought she had it this time, the ultimate in anti-Tom, the hero. Harry had saved her from Tom himself in the Chamber; surely that was enough to cleanse her soul of him. And at first it had worked. Harry was easy and fun; he combined Michael's sense of humor and Dean's kindness without going overboard either way. He was comfortable, like she'd known him forever. She'd thought she was free, and still, still, Tom grew stronger, his voice drowning out all reason. Eventually she couldn't stand it any longer, and she'd come to him. The moment she jumped out of her bedroom window, all thoughts of Harry had been swept away in Tom's hurricane winds. Now, though; now she tries to cling to him.

Harry is coming to destroy the darkness, to flood the cellar and save her yet again from Tom's clutches. Harry is everything Tom isn't, loyalty and truth, and these are the keys, the hopes Ginny has harbored for so long. Harry is perfection.

Ginny feels stronger and more clear-headed than ever before. No longer will she sit in the corner of a dank, musty cellar and wait patiently for a man with such evil in his heart. Tom will never be good and whole and hers; he is simply using her for his own horrible ends, whatever they may be. Lord Voldemort must be stopped, and Ginny will stand by her true hero, and they will vanquish him together.

Shuffling footsteps on the stairs, and Ginny prepares herself, ready to spit in the face of Lucius Malfoy and make her escape. They have taken her wand, but she is a force to be reckoned with all on her own.

She feels it even before the door opens; the air changes around her and her vision blurs, her head spins. Tom, her Tom, swings open her prison door and smiles down upon her in a way he never has before. "I have missed you, my Ginny," he says, and comes for her.

Voldemort has been gone for a month, sweeping the continent for the final piece in his puzzle. Ginny has spent this time pacing in her cell, sneering at the Malfoys when they bring her food, plotting and reasoning and clearing her head. All of this time, all of these memories swirling about, the realization that she needs to forget Tom and start anew. She has spent her life searching for saviors, men who are nothing like her ghost, and all it takes is for Tom to smile upon her and she is lost again.

"Tom," she breathes, and kisses him, her mouth pressed hungrily to his. He is warm and strong and familiar, and he tastes deliciously like apples.


	11. Triumph

Ginny trembles as Tom (he is forever Tom, despite his hatred of the name) places his hands upon her shoulders, as his magic curls about her like smoke, a hot veil of dizzying pressure. She clears her throat and opens her eyes, trying to look calm, collected, pleased. She can't let them know how frightened she is; her Tom would not be proud of her.

"My fellow warriors," says Tom, and his voice is like honey on her tongue, thick and sweet. "Tonight, we welcome Ginevra Weasley into our midst; we greet her as our own."

Across the room, Bellatrix meets Ginny's gaze; the two women glare at one another. Ginny knows how Bellatrix hates her; she can read Bella's eyes, can see the same adoration for Tom that lies in Ginny's own brown orbs. They are alike in this way, and they hate each other for it, for trying to steal him as her own. Ginny, though, allows her gaze to soften, allows herself to smile at Bella. She can do this, forgive her, now that Ginny has won.

Around her the Death Eaters wait, solemn in their black robes and masks, standing tall and silent as they await the ceremony with bated breath. Tom leers at them eagerly; Ginny can feel his excitement. He will have her completely now, he thinks, not knowing he has already won. But of course, he must know; she is standing here, after all.

"Give me your arm," says Tom, and Ginny shivers from head to toe, knowing what comes next. She hesitates, briefly, and a face pops into her mind, a handsome young boy with the most glorious green eyes. But Tom is here, in front of her, and the memory of his kiss is stronger, the pressure of his hands on her shoulders blinding her. Ginny raises her left arm.

It only hurts a little, Ginny thinks with relief, staring into the dark eye holes of the many masks circling her. They look like Death himself, ghostly specters swirling about in the darkness of Malfoy Manor, greedy demons feeding upon the destruction of Ginny Weasley. And as Tom etches the skull into her flesh, they all kneel before her, recognizing that they are witnessing a miracle, a betrayal of the spectacular sort. Harry Potter's own girlfriend, they think with wonder, with triumph. Ginny doesn’t think of Harry at all; not anymore.


	12. War

Ginny hated her job. Despite his obvious affection for her, Tom still couldn't consider her part of his inner circle, and so she was sent on such pointless and ridiculous tasks as rounding up runaways and Taboo-breakers and bringing them into the Ministry. She loathed it, her skin crawling at the thought of these "interrogations." It went against everything she'd stood for as a Gryffindor, as a Weasley, as a member of Dumbledore's Army. It went against morality itself, but if she tried to resist, the Tom ghost inside her howled and clawed at her insides until she was beaten back into submission. And so she found herself Apparating into the midst of some unfamiliar forest, chasing someone who'd dared speak the name Voldemort.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," she said tauntingly, poking her wand at the flap of the tent that lay in the center of the clearing. "I know you're in there." She was tired already, and weak from emotional fighting, and her heart plummeted deep into her stomach as Harry Potter himself emerged from the tent. This was something she had never expected, and yet now that it was happening it seemed fitting, perfect, that it should be she to recover the Chosen One. Tom had to reward her for this, had to promote her to her rightful place as his second, his equal partner. They were already two halves of one whole; now they would all see it.

"Ginny," Harry said, clearly stunned, confused as he stumbled to his feet. "What are you doing here?"

Behind him, Ron and Hermione peered out of the tent, curious and wary. Ron's entire face expanded into an almost comical expression of shock at the sight of Ginny, standing tall before them with her wand raised. "Ginny?"

"They sent me for you," said Ginny calmly. "If you try to fight, I can call for reinforcements." She watched him carefully as she rolled her sleeve up, locked onto those dazzling green eyes as they stared in slowly dawning horror. Something deep inside Ginny's heart snapped, a brief wave of confusion rippling through her as Harry met her gaze. His eyes were hurting her; after a moment, she looked away.

"Ginny," he said again, quieter, whispering, his whole body shaking. "What have they done to you?"

"I'll kill them," said Ron violently, bursting from the tent even as Hermione hissed at him and clutched at his robes. "WHERE ARE THEY? I'LL HEX THEIR FACES OFF, DO YOU HEAR ME? HOW DARE THOSE FILTHY BASTARDS CURSE MY SISTER?" He rushed at Ginny and grabbed her by the shoulders before she could stop him, shook her violently as his eyes blazed with hatred. "I'll stop this, Ginny, you hear me? I'll get this curse off you and we'll kill them all!"

"Ron." Harry sounded oddly calm after all the shouting, placing his hand gently upon Ron's back. "Ron, don't worry, we'll save her." He met Ginny's gaze again; she swayed slightly on the spot and glared at him. "We'll save her."

"There's nothing to save me from," Ginny snapped angrily, stepping away from them, raising her arms in frustration. "You've already had your go at saving me, Harry, remember? It didn't work then and it's not going to work now. Tom is mine and I belong to him. We're one and he loves me; you can't separate us."

"Tom," Harry whispered, but before he had time to work it out, Hermione was speaking.

"Ron, Harry." Her voice squeaked slightly; she was incredibly nervous. "Ginny doesn't really sound like she's been put under the Imperius Curse. They're usually rather blank, aren't they?"

"OF COURSE SHE HAS!" Ron thundered, whirling on Hermione in a way that made her shrink back. Even Ginny was surprised; she hadn't seen her brother this angry in a very long time. "Are you saying my sister would just up and join the Death Eaters?"

"Well, no, of course not, Ron, but you have to admit –"

"It's Tom," said Harry loudly, glaring at the both of them. "She's talking about Tom."

"Harry, Tom is You-Know-Who, in case you'd forgotten," Ron snapped, glaring back.

"The diary, Ron, she's still held by the diary!"

"Shut up!" Ginny cried, and they turned towards her, eyes wide. "I am going to take you to Him, whether you like it or not. All that remains is whether you'll go quietly."

"She must be cursed, if she thinks we're going anywhere quietly," Ron said.

"Oh, and are you going to kill me, Ron? Your little sister?" Ginny sneered at him, even as her insides writhed, even as bits and pieces of her howled away for her to stop this madness. She was a war-torn country herself, Ginny Weasley, stricken and hollow and torn in half by a dividing faction. The Ginny she was, the little red-haired Gryffindor girl, wanted to protect her old friends. The Ginny she had become, Tom's Ginny, wanted to murder them.

"We will kill you," Harry said firmly. "If we have to."

Hermione whimpered and nodded weakly; Ron swallowed hard and looked away. "I seriously doubt it, Harry," Ginny said, lingering over his name just to watch him flinch. "Don't you still see the beautiful Hogwarts grounds in my eyes? The lake, the trees, the endless fields of grass? We've snogged over just about every inch of it, haven't we? How sad to realize now that I was thinking about Tom all the while." Her heart pounded madly; she couldn't look him in the eye. He had to know she was lying; she almost prayed he would know. Why, then, did she say these things? Tom would hurt her if he knew she was feeling this way, dizzy and nauseous and hesitant. But didn't she like it when he hurt her? She didn't like it at all; she just needed it.

Harry clenched his fists and raised his wand. "You don't mean that," he said bravely, trembling almost as badly as Ginny. "You're still Ginny on the inside; I know it."

"I left once," Ron said quietly, staring at his feet. "I got angry, too, Gin. I started thinking I didn't care if He won, that there was no point in fighting a war we couldn't win. So, maybe, I can understand where you're coming from." He glanced back at her; his eyes were shining. "But I came back."

"I don't care," Ginny cried desperately, but if she really didn't care, why hadn't she touched her mark yet? Why was she still standing there doing nothing, shaking and fighting the urge to vomit? Why was she listening to their sentimental bullshit? Maybe it was the greenness of Harry's eyes; they hypnotized her.

"Ron came back," Harry said now, loud and firm. "Tom doesn't love you, Ginny. Do you think Voldemort cares whether you live or die? He's using your confusion, Ginny. Once he's won, once he's killed your family and your friends and your loved ones, he's going to kill you, too. Because he can't love. I know he can't. It's how I'm going to win, Ginny. He can't love you; we already do. Stay with us."

"I." He couldn't be right; Ginny could feel Tom's love, feel his adoration wrapped around her heart, his obsession clamped around her neck. Harry couldn't possibly know anything about Tom, about their relationship. Still, there was something so sweet in Harry's gaze, something tender and caring and Ginny felt sick as she gasped and took a step back. "I can't."

They didn't understand; Tom could touch her now, and he was, the very essence of his power snaking around her chest like an embrace. "I need you, Ginny; we need each other. Come to me."

She looked at them, the three of them staring at her, eyes wide and shining, waiting patiently for her to return to them. And on the other side, He waited, too, knowing which side Ginny would choose, simply because she had to. And so she chose compromise, the only path that seemed right, the only path she could possibly walk without completely destroying herself. "I won't tell them I've seen you," she said to them, to the Golden Trio of heroes, who drew closer together at her words. "I don't know, maybe some people could do as you ask, could stay. But I'm sorry; I just can’t. He's inside of me." She closed her eyes and Disapparated.


	13. Acceptance

_"Hello, Ginny Weasley. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come across my diary?"_

_"I found it in a used textbook. Are you a ghost?"_

_"No, I'm a memory, preserved within these pages. I suppose one could say that I am the diary itself."_

_"My father says not to trust talking objects."_

_"I can understand such sentiments. However, I assure you, Ginny, I am completely innocent. Won't you let me prove it to you?"_

_"Okay."_

*****

She can hear him sometimes, still, even when she is preoccupied with other people. His voice is small and faded, a bit like the old quilt Ginny used to carry around when she was a little girl. His voice is not, however, as comforting as the quilt. _"Dean isn't very appreciative of you, is he?"_ The whispers come at all hours, when she is trying to take notes or go to sleep. _"He doesn't understand you like I do."_

Dean smiles kindly and opens the door for her, and Tom cackles in her ears. _"Ignoring your independence again. Tsk tsk, what a shame, Ginny. I would never treat you that way, now would I? You really ought to leave him."_

Ginny whirls around and snarls at poor, unsuspecting Dean, who backs up a step in shock. "Yes," she says loudly. "I will."

*****

_"Ginny."_

"No."

_"Come to me, Ginny."_

"No."

She can almost picture him, twiddling his thumbs as he grins smugly at her. _"It is useless to fight me, Ginny. I'll never leave you alone otherwise."_

"If I go," Ginny says firmly, sitting up in bed, "you'll only hurt me again."

 _"Why, Ginny, I'm stunned. Don't you trust me?"_ He is an echo in her mind, a memory of slanted ink scribbles on the crinkled old pages of a journal. _"Won't you come and give me a chance?"_

"Fine," she says, choking back a sob. She leans over and opens the window.

*****

Voldemort's fingers close upon her wrist. "You are mine, aren't you, Ginny?"

She nods silently, burying her face into his chest.

*****

"Do it," he snarls, shoving her forward, sending her tumbling to her knees. "Prove your loyalty to me."

Ginny looks up desperately and meets Dean's eyes, sees the fear and shock reflecting upon her, and she starts to shake her head, starts to crawl away. But Voldemort is there behind her, suffocating her with his scent. Slowly, she lifts her head, stares into that terrifying red glare, and still all she sees is Tom Riddle with his hands upon her soul.

"Will you show yourself, Ginny? Will you show us all how Mudbloods should be treated?" Tom's voice echoes horribly around the room, around her heart.

Ginny frowns and narrows her eyes, and silently apologizes as she directs her wand. _"Crucio,"_ she whispers, and the Death Eaters howl with laughter as Dean collapses.

*****

"Go, Ginny!" Chaos erupts around her, and there is a mad rush, people running and cursing all around her, humans and beasts yelling and pushing and storming up the grassy hill and into Hogwarts. Lights flash as people cry out in pain; Ginny stumbles along in the crowd, her hood pulled tightly over her head to hide her identity from anyone who knew her.

"Go, Ginny!" He cries again, and then he is there beside her, one hand clasping upon her shoulder as he tosses curses with the other. "Find them, kill them all!" He is twisted beyond all recognition now, his voice thin and hissing with rage.

Ginny pulls out her wand and opens her mouth to hex the nearest Hogwarts student, ready once again to blindly obey her Lord. And yet, her eyes fall upon them, the righteous anger of the oppressed, the collection of lifeless bodies in the Great Hall, and her heart skips a beat; her body freezes. Is that a shock of red hair she sees, amongst the dead? Is that Ron, bleeding as he duels Rowle? Is it Luna, smiling as she fells a cloaked madman? And could it be her mother, a terrifying look in her eyes as she chases Bellatrix down?

All around her are the ones who've loved her, the people she's cared about for years, if not her entire life. And behind her, he bellows, ordering her once again to bow for him, to say yes. "Kill for me, Ginny; kill them all." Is this the love she has chosen, the trust she believes in? Murder and hatred.

Ginny kneels on the floor and retches, feeling a desperate need to empty herself. The battle rages around her, and Harry is not amongst the side of good; perhaps his body still lies outside on the grounds. All of Ginny's acceptances have led to this; all of her agreements have killed Harry Potter, and possibly countless others. 

"Ginny!" Voldemort's voice is shrill, and it carries across the sea of bodies like a siren song. "Help me, Ginny; come to me!"

She has been coming to him since she was eleven years old; she has been coming to death all this time. And as Harry appears like a burst of light in the middle of the hall, Ginny's heart breaks yet again along that same old fracture, and the tenuous line of heat connecting her to Lord Voldemort fizzles and dies.

"No!" She shouts angrily, flinging the black cloak aside and tearing her mask from her face. The world is watching Harry, but Voldemort stares at Ginny, his eyes wide with shock as he realizes what has happened.

*****

"Try for some remorse, Riddle," says Harry, and Tom looks at Ginny, who is standing in the background with tears streaking her face, her beautiful red hair fanned out around her face in a frizzy halo. She has forsaken him, his dear little Ginny Weasley, and he is stunned by the force of his sorrow. He has never needed anyone; why should a little girl reduce him to _feeling_ now, when he is facing his greatest enemy in a climax for the ages?

"I've seen what you'll be otherwise," Harry continues, his voice steady as he circles. "Go ahead, try."

Tom Riddle looks from Harry to Ginny and feels a tearing in his body, a painful crackling of his skin. Is this remorse, then? Does he feel bad about hurting beautiful little Ginny? He has murdered hundreds, directly or indirectly, and he has never thought twice about it. So how different could Ginny have been, really? He has touched her, kissed her, consumed her, and she turned aside when he needed her most. But she is human, after all, and the Dark Lord does not need humans. All he needs is power, and he can certainly have that without Ginny Weasley by his side. He will show her, later, when the boy is done. He will show her his power.

"No," he says, grinning, and tears his eyes away from the girl, who closes her own eyes and silently lets Tom go for the last time. "No, I don't think I will feel anything, thank you very much," says Lord Voldemort, sealing his own doom.


End file.
